


confessionals

by guesso



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, incorrect use of medical equipment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-21 01:28:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21291380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guesso/pseuds/guesso
Summary: the line between admiration and worship is a haze in itself. Add a variety of complexes and you get something like this - Drift, (un)worthy, finds himself at the mercy of a man of this world, holy and beautiful. There's a lot of nods to religion and such, a lot of things that could be called character analysis, but mostly, finally, they frag.
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock/Ratchet
Comments: 10
Kudos: 38





	confessionals

_Come with me. I want to try something._

Anywhere, blindly, doggedly; low tone soothing, shudder inducing. Eager to please, knowing how unnecessary, devotionals regardless.

Low lights in sterility. Is this not service? Are these bays not purity, smeared with drippings, secretions of sins, all deadly? Are the delicate tools not mass, instrumental in conveying the Word; harsh judgements of heavens almighty? Here in the pulpit, the sermon, the pastor, the hushed love of world weary hands, eons of godless crusades.

Love for the sinner, neither saints, requiring punishment, repentance - cold restraints fasten 'round ankles, wrists - the way blunted fingers read from the (un)holy texts of a worn frame, knowing, knowing polish a mere avoidance, knowing fasting, isolation, a devotion of utmost dedication with which to strike fear into the soul of a non-believer, but no, never this one, never the beloved. Psalms in their low whining chorus, always for his beloved, that capital sin, his one right choice, the one being put above his own Maker.

Pooling hellfire, desire teased out of him, playing his vocalizer as trilling harps. The feather whisper of deft hands, of, around, in, the body, maestro, conductor as he is, moving, wrenching, this cantor amidst unknown verses. And oh how his beloved conductor, his pastor, his pillar, his intertwined soul, how his beautiful baritone fills and swells, now they move as music, moaning real hymns.

The cables under plating taut, sensitive, ministrations aplenty. The congregation has only just gathered. They sit, neatly, in the raised edges of his own pew, they look as if to hold him, with no near kindness as their shepherd.

_Open for me. _

Without hesitation. The filtered, cycled, sterile air cold and curling into him a realization of just how hot he's running, how these worldly desires, bodily needs, have riled him. Soaked, adding to the sins of the many.

So sharply cold it garners a high, surprised _ah!_ as it circles his outer node slowly.

_Got the idea while I was working on the insides of someone's ventilation systems, if you were wondering at all. You obviously can't stop someone's venting all the way or they'll overheat, but you don't want their fans or your hands to get damaged while you're rooting around. This little tool sort of temporarily freezes a section by preventing some of the fans from automatically kicking on and spinning. We're going to see what it does to your calipers. _

Of course, of course, this blend of his beloved's dutiful work and his own sinful need to beg. Brilliant, torturous, sending ripples of shock and ache through him.

_The thing is, though, when it stops the mechanism, it holds it in whatever position it was in._ The glint in those optics devilish, scheming. _We can't have you staying this loose the whole time. _Icy, the tool is pushed into him. He can feel it halve itself, small hooks connecting to each caliper lining him, cradling, lying in wait. _Luckily for you, I know just how tight you can get around my spike without causing any real damage. _

He cannot parse between praying for forgiveness or thanks - if his intentions should matter any longer. Tool situated, another plucked from the audience. High-pitched metallic whirring signals its preparation for its intended function, though as the lightning strike of its rapid reverberations pulse through an already sensitive array, he realizes. A low, drawn out moan rounds out the choir.

The beginning and the end, his beloved. All that matters are the vibrations sounding through him and the unspoken, careful plans, guiding hand, of his mate. Blasphemous. Virtuous. Perfect.

Charge dizzyingly high, crackling, arcing off his own arced frame in a perfect storm - and only building, keenly aware of each inner ring shrinking - he knows better than to overload without blessing. Further still, he knows better than to assume he would be allowed at this point. He dare not ruin the masterpiece unfolding. His devotion is being sorely tested; teetering between despair and bliss, but he mustn't, he won't. The love bestowed upon him gives him strength, hope - through this, all is possible. Disappointment is not an option.

Hands move, one from its post with the repurposed tool, one from its meandering of bodily pastures, both to fold down the foot of the berth. Still shackled by the ankles, his upper body now flush with heated metal while his legs bend out, framing that who has graced him.

With a tug, he's manhandled to the edge, legs held firmly. Stretched, burning, as his lover's spike begins to fill him, already having cycled down, clenching, held emptily, the blunt head leaves a wake of fire crackling through him. The bits of the tool holding engaged calipers make themselves known as they bite in with the slow, weighty drag.

Satisfied rumble and cocked grin andorn approval about the prone blissed form. Never to doubt his beloved, though mutual enjoyment, that he could give something to his savior, that his frame could be the vessel for holy, pure unspokens, that is what he's after.

Dear Lord, is this not worship? The admiration, adoration, brutally tender, so much, too much, the soft caress he ought to self flagellate over for ever letting this stained glass cathedral window of a man convince him he deserves; _this and more, Drift, so much more. I don't have the words to even begin to tell you,_. He can't bring himself to, he can't, he can't, now so full, full of this warm multicolored light his lover so graciously gives him. Lord this must be worship, the attentive, meticulous, ritualistic touches shaky, intentional, exactly placed in response to the now multitudes of moans, hisses, desperate thrashing movements.

Sharp jolts of fever, those prongs that hold him steadily open, tight and slick enough to drive the charge ever higher, to feel every divine thrust. No anchors are they, for his being has left this plane, ascended. Need, need, this cruel deity tests him, pushing him past his worldly limits with increasing pace, force. Every node aflame, crawling out to lick strained, shaking plating.

Guttural hollered prayers, oh how he begs, dripping in his lust, his love for this Man. Hoarse and static and unsightly, begging for release from this hellish heaven.

Lord is he heard, his sobbing resounding through the humble church of the broken. No mercy granted as the divine uses him, pace becoming erratic. Hot venting washes him, intermingling, steam purifying the air, bodily thuribles. _Ready?_ he is called on, breathlessly, knowing smirk, depths of blue locking with his very essence. Manic, distorted pagan howling as all impurities prepare their mass exodus from an unworthy vessel. Stuffing the air with their weight, undone sinner hardly aware of their blanketing through the haze of what is left of him. No words, glyphs, coherency, only animalistic hunger.

He stumbles into overload as stiff calipers realize their freedom, contracting, gripping, desperate and sinful, bathing in pools of holy water that flood and drip from him. Each pulse, shudder, a low, earthy throb in tune with the heavens, ever thankful hallelujahs. Rings of light cast blurred, soft-edged halos around his beloved, and should his optics not reset he would swear this to be heaven.

Warm, comforting pressure as frames are pushed together, meeting him against the berth. Gentle kisses trail down his check. _Love you_, confessionals tender and hid in a soft nuzzle.

_Love you too, Ratchet._


End file.
